Stray
by Phyona
Summary: John brings home a puppy.


**Author's Note: This little story popped into my head like eyeballs pop into Sherlock's tea**

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><p>When John shuffled through the doorway with a cardboard box in his arms, Sherlock admittedly experienced a few seconds of uncharacteristic incomprehension over what it might contain. In all fairness, he hadn't been himself of late, what with the stress of the MaryMoriarty debacle barely behind them. Delayed cognizance was hardly unexpected.

Still, he couldn't let the box's contents go un-deduced too long, both for his own sanity and to avoid making John any more worried for Sherlock's stability than he already was. Such concern was grating and unhelpful. Unfortunately, though John would never accept it from him either, it was also entirely mutual. It didn't take a genius to deduce that neither of them was doing…well.

Sherlock's gaze locked on the box, scanning and cataloguing. It was weathered, its edges faded by water damage and holes poked into its sides. Judging by the easy manner in which John held it in his arms it couldn't be heavier than a laptop, though he was still careful in his movements, so the weight inside had to shift easily. John had already moved the entirety of his meager belongings back into 221B and he wasn't given to frivolous purchases, so it probably wasn't home goods or clothing. Food was unlikely given the vessel, and John wasn't generous enough to bring him body parts from the morgue. No, there was only one kind of package that would benefit from breathing holes.

"Why do you have an animal?" he asked flatly, pressing the tips of his fingers together and leaning back in his chair. John blinked.

"How did you—never mind. I have it because…Christ, I don't know," he sighed. With heavy, tired steps he crossed to his chair, sitting carefully and perching the box on his lap.

"You don't know."

"No, Sherlock, I don't bloody know," he snapped. John's temper was easy to trigger in recent days, his patience rotted by loss and lies.

"Ah…" Sherlock looked down at the floor, his brow pulling together.

"I just saw it and I couldn't…couldn't just leave it to die like some…it's only a baby."

It occurred to Sherlock, probably through John's specific use of the word 'baby', that John was projecting the loss of his unborn child onto whatever animal was hidden in the box. In a different time he would have just come out and told him that, informed him that he was being transparent and sentimental in an attempt to jar him from his stupor. At present, however, avoiding a shouting match was preferable to exposing John's emotional weakness, so he refrained.

"Is it a badger?"

"_What?_" John snorted, proceeding to chuckle for the first time in Sherlock's recent memory. "No, Sherlock, it's not a bloody badger." By way of explanation, John folded back lips of the box and reached inside.

What he pulled out make Sherlock's breath stutter in his chest.

It was a puppy, small and wrinkled, with half-lidded big eyes and paws too large for its body.

"It's a bulldog. Or at least mostly bulldog anyway."

"Where—," Sherlock's voice broke and he had to clear his throat before attempting speech again. "Where did you find it?"

"Someone left his litter in a box on the street near Tesco's with a sign that said 'free.' He was the last one."

"His previous owner was an idiot."

"Ha, yeah I'd say so. He's not a newborn but he's still too young to be left out like that."

"And with no guarantee of a capable owner claiming him…"

"Right."

"You…do you plan on keeping him?" Sherlock inquired as casually as possible. He plucked a bit of imaginary lint from his trousers.

"I'm not sure."

Sherlock's gaze slid to John, where it took in the deepening circles under his eyes and the pallid tone of his skin that could only come from bone deep weariness.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"You're not seriously suggesting you want to keep it too." John looked at him with his mouth open in some parody of a smile. He pushed the cardboard box to the floor and held the dog against his chest. Sherlock swallowed a bit too hard at the sight.

"I would help raise it, if you'd like."

John only laughed mockingly in response.

"Why is that so unbelievable to you?"

"Oh, I don't know, because you don't give a shit for any living creature, least of all puppies."

"Really."

"And you don't even feed yourself properly, so how could you possibly raise a dog?"

"I feed myself what I need to survive."

"Barely, and that's debatable."

"Regardless of your opinion on my eating habits, we would be caring for the animal together so our duties would be divvied up and therefore easier to manage," Sherlock offered, sounding perfectly reasonable to his ears.

John scoffed and began rubbing the pup's small ear between a few fingers, his soft, slow strokes a stark contrast to the tone of his voice.

"Very funny, Sherlock."

"I wasn't joking."

"We both know perfectly well that I'd be stuck feeding it and taking it out and cleaning up after it. You'll probably be bored of it in a day."

"I won't."

"Yeah, yeah."

The puppy nuzzled at John's jumper, eyes peeking open for a second before creeping closed again under the ministrations of John's fingertips.

"I've had a dog before."

John's eyes bulged and fixed on Sherlock.

"_You?_" he hissed incredulously.

"Is it so hard to believe—"

"Yes," John answered instantly. "Did you experiment on the poor thing? Try to pretend it was a murder victim? God, what were your parents thinking?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and pushed back his curls.

"Though you clearly do not think much of my character or my ability to sustain another life, I did, in fact, once own a perfectly cared-for and very well-loved Irish Setter named Redbeard and it would be—"

"Oi, wait, hold on right there."

Sherlock shut his mouth and clenched his jaw.

"First off," John continued, "I think very much of your character, Sherlock, okay, you know that."

"But you—"

"And I'm sorry if I'm…a little off lately and maybe made it seem like I didn't. Because that's ridiculous, your 'character' is my…I like it a lot, alright? Your character is fine."

"Oh."

"Yeah, and secondly, I had no idea you used to have a dog…or that it meant something to you."

"That's because I never told you."

"I gathered that, thanks. But…well, if I'd known I would have responded differently about this one."

"I like dogs very much."

The corner of John's lip tugged up into a small smile. He still looked surprised, but there was a level of amusement in his eyes that Sherlock had missed more than he'd realized.

"Would you like to hold him?"

In lieu of answering Sherlock reached out immediately, sliding to the edge of his chair and tilting towards John. Delicately, John pulled the puppy from his chest and placed him in Sherlock's spindly, careful hands. Though the small animal awoke briefly, perplexed at being moved, it quickly settled once Sherlock had it cradled against his stomach.

After a few long moments of staring at the puppy in earnest, Sherlock's eyes met John's.

Whatever John saw there must have been fairly persuasive, because within seconds he let out a long sigh, fell back in his chair, and said in a raspy voice: "alright, yeah, we can keep him."

As he stroked his fingers over the soft rolls of the chubby puppy, Sherlock was more soothed than he had been since feeling Redbeard's auburn fur so very long ago.

"Have you considered a name?" Sherlock asked after a while, finally tearing his eyes from the puppy. John looked dazed at his question, as though Sherlock had caught him out in the middle of a private thought.

"A few but none that really stuck."

"What about—"

"And we are _not_ naming it 'Sherlock,'" John interrupted, a teasing lilt to his voice.

"Of course not. Do I look like a bulldog to you?" he asked sardonically.

"No, you look like more of a cat."

"Precisely." He paused for a moment, contemplating names. "What about Hamish?"

"Over my dead body," John deadpanned.

"How about 'Fritz Haber'?"

"What? Who the hell is that?"

"A chemist."

"I've never heard of him."

"'Course not, he's only the _father_ of chemical warfare."

"Oh right, obviously," John said sarcastically, punctuating with a roll of his eyes. "Because when I look at that animal the first thing that comes to mind is 'chemical warfare.' Yeah, no. I think he needs a masculine name like…'Commodore' or 'Chief.'"

"Sure, if you want to give the poor animal a complex."

"Sherlock, it's a dog. They don't get complexes. They aren't complex enough to get complexes."

"Well if that's a risk you're willing to take…"

John groaned and rubbed his hands over his face.

"Fine. What's your brilliant suggestion then? ' 'Heisenberg'? 'Hitler'?"

"How about 'Mr. Hudson'?"

Immediately John broke into a fit of high-pitched, silly giggling. It made Sherlock grin before he could help it, pleased as ever to hear the rare sound of John's laughter, especially since his joke was the cause.

"She'd be livid."

"Indeed."

"She might be pissed anyway seeing as we're bringing a pet into the flat without asking her."

"A pet is hardly as damaging or disgusting as some of the other things I've brought into this flat."

"True."

"What about Gladstone?" Sherlock suggested.

"That sounds like a disease…"

"Hodgkin?"

"That actually is a disease."

"Fluffy?"

"Now you're not even trying."

"I…alright, fine. What…what about Boswell?"

"Boswell?"

"Yes. It means 'an admirer or a record-keeper of another's deeds.'"

"Like me, right?"

"Precisely."

"Boswell," John repeated, seeming to feel the word out on his tongue. "I like it." He stared down at the puppy on Sherlock's stomach. "He looks like a Boswell."

"Indeed he does."

"Then Boswell it is. We're going to have to go out and get him a bunch of stuff, food and bedding and toys and all that. And we should probably get him to a vet."

"Agreed."

A silence settled around them, calm and easy as they watched Sherlock's fingers graze Boswell's back.

"I really didn't think this would be something you'd go for," John said quietly.

"So you indicated."

"But, um, I actually do think it's a good thing. You know, for us."

"Us," Sherlock repeated, looking up at John through his lashes. Though he was hard-pressed to admit it, a cold, barbed fear had taken root in him over John's tenuous motivation to stay by his side. He'd had nowhere else to go, not after the loss of Mary, and he seemed bitter at the necessity of returning to Baker Street. It made Sherlock cautious and nervous around him, worried that he might trigger John's departure with the slightest act of indiscretion.

"Yeah, well, since it's just going to be you and me from now on I think having a dog in the mix might…ease the way a bit," John said, smiling kindly in a way that made his eyes crinkle at the edges.

"So you're not…what you mean to say is—"

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I…I want to be here. It's good to be here."

Sherlock swallowed tightly and offered a curt nod. Something that ached finally unclenched in his chest, and he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

"And you're, uh, not going anywhere either, right?" John asked casually, but Sherlock heard the subtle tension in his throat, the note of anxiety.

"Of course not, John. We have an animal to care for now. I would never abandon it. Boswell has had enough of that for one lifetime."

John cleared his throat and nodded, his features relaxing. It seemed to smooth some of the wrinkles from his face and lighten the shadows beneath his eyes.

"Haven't we all," he murmured.

Their eyes met, peaceful and intimate, and Sherlock silently agreed that yes, indeed they had.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: I love you so much I'd confess to you that Sherlock is a girl's name.<strong>


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